


Some Day One Day

by Keibell



Series: Modern Times Rock ‘N’ Roll [4]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Comfort, Gen, kinda angsty, mostly fluff and jokes and good times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-06 01:27:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18840829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keibell/pseuds/Keibell
Summary: Coming off of tour and moving to London apparently causes you to forget how to function like a normal human being. Who knew? Luckily, Roger and Brian are there to cheer you up. Well, them, and someone you swear that you've seen before...





	Some Day One Day

**Author's Note:**

> guess who's back..... its me breaking ur hearts... enjoy..

“Get dressed; we’re going out.”

“What the _fuck_ are you doing at my house?”

It wasn’t every day that you opened your door to see Roger Taylor and Brian May on your doorstep, all casually dressed - _well, casual by their standards -_ much less on your brand-spanking-new doorstep _._ Apparently, you’d been away from your tiny, shared flat in Brightthorpe for so long that your flatmate had started renting out your empty room to cover the bills, and after hearing this, Roger and Brian had pushed you to get a place of your own closer to London, to cut down on travelling costs and times and such. They’d helped you to find somewhere decent as well, which you dearly appreciated, though Roger had insisted on being incredibly picky about the whole thing, complaining the whole time that houses ‘ _never used to be this bloody expensive_ ’ and that loaves of bread used to be a couple of pence. Brian had joined him on his relentless bargain hunting too, because ‘ _oh, y/n, you don’t want to live there do you?_ ’ and ‘ _that area had a robbery when I was in college, it’s not safe’,_ despite the fact he was in college practically half a century ago _._ Regardless, you found yourself the proud owner of a two-bedroom house just outside of central London ( _in a ‘safe-enough’ area_ ), renting out one of the rooms to a friend you’d met in uni who now worked in the city, because London was _horribly_ expensive. It was on the small side, but relatively decent considering what most housing was like in London - tour money, as it seemed, _came in very handy._

Your housemate was staying with her girlfriend for the week, and you’d had your first break from touring in a while, so you’d decided to kick back and relax with some telly and a family-pack of crisps. The whole week had been a generally quiet affair, _at least, until now._

“Are you going to invite us in, B? It’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.” Roger huffs, his breath appearing as white swirls against the dark sky. You blink at the two of them and suddenly became very, _very_ aware of the breeze hitting your legs.

“I’m- I’m not wearing pants.” You say dumbly, practically rooted to the spot before you spring into action, stepping aside to let them in and grabbing the blanket from the couch to wrap around your waist. You’re so surprised to see them that your mind has gone blank, like you’re short-circuiting at the sight of them in your living room. Here you were, in an oversized tour t-shirt from the North American leg you’d just finished, not much covering your bottom half, and Brian and Roger were just _there_ , like you hadn’t just spent months playing music with them every night.

“Come on, we’re going out,” Brian repeats, hands in his pockets to protect them from the nighttime cold, and you splutter, tightening the blanket around your body and gesturing wildly to your television.

“No we’re not, ‘ _Taskmaster_ ’ is on.” You scowl at them, and they shuffle on the spot awkwardly, watching your expression become stormy. They’d never seen you get angry that often. “What in God’s name are you doing at my house? Showing up unannounced? _Who does that?_ ”

“Well, you’re clearly not busy!” Roger insists, gesturing at the soft nest of cushions and covers you’d barely left in the past week, doing nothing but sleepily watching ‘ _This Morning_ ’ and ‘ _Father Ted_ ’ reruns. He was right, but you don’t want to admit it, so you furrowed your eyebrows further, pushing your messy hair out of your face.

Brian suddenly jumps, exclaiming in alarm as something brushes against his leg, before looking down and seeing a rotund ginger cat sprawled out at his feet, tail curling around the heel of Brian’s clog. You immediately tut and apologise, springing into action to haul the cat into your arms, where it sits happily, with its face blank and expressionless.

“I’m sorry about him, he’s a little git.” You say, pulling a face at the creature and wrinkling your nose. The cat blinks back and does nothing. It had been a bit of an impulse decision to adopt him ( _combined with the strangest encounter you’d had with a cat after a show_ ), but your roommate had agreed to take care of him when you were on tour, and he had utterly stolen your heart with his dopey-looking face and impossibly spherical body. You’d spent the next few days following him around calling him ‘ _chubby boy_ ’, and he’d shown his gratitude by curling up at the foot of your bed each night. It was a pretty much perfect relationship.

Roger and Brian looked at you expectantly, as if waiting to be introduced.

“ _Oh!_ Uh, Brian, Roger - this is Pierre.” You hold him by his armpits out to them, and he barely reacts. “Pierre - this is Bri and Rog.”

Pierre didn’t do anything. You put him back on the floor and he trundled away to sit under the table and stare at the three of you. Brian and Roger held his gaze, captivated.

“Your cat is called ‘ _Pierre_ ’?”

“What’s wrong with Pierre? He came with that name.” You protested, bristling at Roger’s judgemental tone. “I thought it was decadent. And I’ve been watching that new ‘ _War and Peace_ ’ show on BBC iPlayer.”

“That came out years ago.”

“…It did?” Your tone was hesitant, and Roger huffs, turning around and gesturing vaguely to the clutter that had accumulated in your house. Among the knick-knacks was his own copy of ‘ _On The Road_ ’ by Jack Kerouac that he’d leant to you after a drunken night in his loft, and you’d spent every spare moment on tour poring through the pages, and Roger’s own notes written in neat pencil. It had been left open on a side table, a crumpled chippy receipt used as a bookmark - evidence that your life was very much _a mess_ right now.

“You’re clearly in a funk, B, _let’s go out_.” Though you’re a little offended at your lair being referred to as in a ‘ _funk_ ’, you quickly see what he means when you spot a sock discarded on the bannister. It seemed that being on tour was the glue that held you together, and now that you were back home for a while before starting the European leg, you’d completely forgotten how to function like a normal human being.

You tap your foot, furrowing your eyebrows at the two men currently surrounded by copious amounts of evidence as to your own inability to cope without being unsupervised. You didn’t know why you were acting so angry; sure, it was surprising to have them show up on your doorstep without warning, but the truth of the matter was that you’d missed them. It was a bit pathetic, in your own opinion, how many sleepless hours you’d spent staring at your ceiling, your ears ringing from the uncharacteristic silence. You’d had the opposite problem when you’d started out on tour, as Roger’s incessant tapping and tinkering filtered through the walls and kept you awake, as well as Brian’s muffled voice talking on the phone to Anita - but now, it seemed that you couldn’t sleep without it.

You were shockingly lonely, now that you had no one to say goodnight to, or clap you on the back after a particularly good show. You’d gotten so desperate that you’d started listening to old interviews of theirs to fall asleep, a personal favourite being Brian’s ‘ _Star Licks_ ’ tutorial video from the eighties.

Even though you didn’t want to admit it to them, you were unbelievably happy to see them again.

“What do you mean by ‘ _go out_ ’..?” You ventured, and the two of them smiled at you, taking it as a victory. Roger clapped his hands, rubbing them together excitedly.

“Out! To a pub! To see a shite band! Any old gubbins!” The more he spoke, the more you were actually considering it; after all, you couldn’t actually remember how long it had been since you’d gotten dressed.

“We’d really like it if you could join us, Y/N,” Brian added, and the use of your real name - a rare occurrence nowadays - took you by surprise. Ever the animal lover, he had gradually crouched down to reach out to Pierre, wiggling his fingers and chattering to him quietly. The cat didn’t seem to mind, just looked at Brian, and then blinked at you.

You could probably handle one night out. _What was the worst that could happen?_

“Fine.” You conceded, and couldn’t hide the smile that crept onto your face. “I’ll take my time getting ready though, just to spite you.”

“Fair enough, B.”

“So, do you want a cuppa, you bloody home-invading bastards?”

You did end up taking your time, marching about your home to try and find a suitable outfit, and make your hair look like you hadn’t just been dragged through a hedge backwards. Roger had tried to pull the ‘ _one-and-three-sevenths_ ’ joke when you’d asked him how many sugars he wanted in his tea, and you’d just ended up calling him a knob and dumping two in for good measure, to his chagrin. Apparently, not being on tour didn’t change his sense of humour.

You’d had to defend poor Brian from Pierre too, who had taken a liking to him, choosing to sit on the back of the sofa behind him and swipe at his famous grey curls. You swooped in fast before Pierre could manage to start attempting to eat it, knowing that if any harm came to _Brian May’s_ hair, you’d be on the chopping block. He’d been surprisingly polite about the whole ordeal - and you strongly suspected that Brian would let an animal do anything they liked to him before complaining - but Roger had cackled with laughter the whole time, watching you wrestle the fat tomcat into your arms and scold him lightly.

And now you were all sat on your rug, an assortment of nail polish bottles set out in a row on the floor next to you, your shoes in a pile by the door. You had Brian’s hands in yours, carefully applying a shiny topcoat to the silver polish he’d picked out from your collection as some random record spun on your turntable, while Roger leant against the couch, an obnoxiously colourful face mask covering his features. His hands were rough, worn at the fingertips from years and years of playing the guitar and fiddling with stage equipment and telescopes. It was intimidating sometimes, thinking about how he’d been creating music longer than you’d been alive - fuck, he’d built his own guitar and more by the time he was your age; and here you were, painting his nails.

“You’re doing that face again.” Brian muses as you finish up with the polish, screwing the cap back on before you fiddle with your hair, running your fingers over the locks to arrange them relatively neatly. You frown at him.

“What face?”

“Is it that one they always pull during ‘ _You’re My Best Friend_ ’?” Roger says, though his speech is muffled from his efforts not to dislodge the mask. Brian laughs, his curls falling over his shoulders.

“That’s the one!”

“You go all quiet and concentrate-y,” Roger adds, and then frowns beneath the mask. “This thing is awfully slimy, B - are you sure it’s supposed to be this gooey?”

“Wh- yeah, it’s fine, Rog.” You answer, suddenly becoming aware of your furrowed eyebrows, and the tip of your tongue poking out from between your lips. You try to relax your face, only for it to scrunch up again, and tug a sigh from you. “I can’t stop it now!”

You hadn’t thought about what faces you were pulling on stage; you tended to put more thought into your outfits, or the music, or bopping away to the rhythm of the song - but now Brian had you wondering. The fact you were at your most focussed when playing ‘ _You’re My Best Friend_ ’ - an addition of your own to the setlist - didn’t surprise you, as the bass part was relatively complex and finicky. That, and it was the only song in the show that you were allowed to sing solo and given free rein over. You’d ended up putting the whole thing together yourself in a sleep-deprived daze, and the tech had come leaps and bounds since your first haphazard performance, seeing as the crew now had more than a few hours to set up lighting and microphone cues. The whole ordeal was your pride and joy, and your own way of paying tribute to John; someone you owed so much to, _and yet never met._

“Don’t worry about stopping it, it’s nice to see. Shows that you care about what you do.” Brian muses, and you raise an eyebrow at him, before reaching over to pull the sheet mask from Roger’s face. He blinks, bewildered, and you tell him to rub the solution into his face, which he does begrudgingly. “We like playing with you, B.”

That draws a small smile from you, as you pack away the glass bottles, and gather up the remains of the sheet mask and packaging. “I like playing with you too.”

“To tell the truth, we missed you.” Roger shrugs, and you freeze in your tracks, whirling around with your eyes wide. Roger pauses, mid-rub, with his face all screwed up, and blinks at you. “What?”

“I missed _you!_ ” You gush, suddenly flooded with relief because your strange behaviour apparently wasn’t strange at all. “I couldn’t sleep because I couldn’t hear the two of you making noise.”

“Typical, honestly. Welcome to the tour life.” Brian chuckles, waving his hands back and forth in front of his face, blowing on his nails to dry the polish quicker. “I couldn’t sleep for weeks when we came back from our first tour and had to go back to living alone.”

“Suppose I got off easy, ‘cause I was living with Fred at the time.” Roger hums, and at the mention of Freddie, your heart squeezes, and you see a flicker of emotion in Roger’s eyes; and a fleeting hesitation in Brian’s movements. There are many moments like this on tour, where Brian and Roger are both reminded of Freddie by something small, and have a beat of silence, before moving on with what they were doing. Once, you wore a yellow shirt for a show, and then immediately packed it away when you saw how Roger and Brian would glance over at you in the middle of a song, with this sad _look_ in their eyes. You wouldn’t say anything about it, just let them have a second to themselves while getting on with your own things; but it was like looking at them through a window, seeing only a fraction of what was in front of you, not understanding the decades of pain beneath the surface. The thimble on the chain around your neck bumps against your skin, and you fiddle with it, watching Roger suddenly chuckle to himself.

“Yeah, you used to come over just to sleep on our couch during the day because you missed how loud Freddie was when he made coffee.” He continues, looking at Brian who laughs too, smiling warmly. _He still misses it now._

“I got the couch, and John got the armchair.” He adds, to which Roger nods sagely, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Honestly, B, you’d never hear a man look for a clean mug so noisily.”

You smile politely, even though your chest is burning with a grief that probably pales in comparison to theirs. “How was he with cutlery?”

“Worse!” Roger cries, like you’ve unearthed a forty-year-old-grudge. “And he never even did the bloody dishes!”

“Neither of you did, Rog, I did them - and I didn’t even live there!”

“Oh, but you seemed perfectly comfortable snoozing away on our sofa, Brian!”

“You’re completely ridiculous-” Brian’s voice fades away as you decide to leave them to it, rushing into your kitchen to do your own dishes before they saw them and started to bicker again.

After finishing up with the dishes, you manage to make yourself look presentable, and scramble around in your cupboards to find a jacket with pockets suitable enough to fit all of your things. Brian and Roger are assembling their coats and shoes again, having subdued themselves from full-blown arguing to snarky remarks, before the three of you are out of the door and away into the night.

-

A few hours later, you were absolutely sloshed.

You’d all found a quiet little pub to camp out in, with a horrible live band and lights dark enough that you couldn’t really see anyone’s faces. You couldn’t remember the name now, though you had an inkling it was something stupid like ‘ _The Hole in the Wall_ ’ or ‘ _The Nobody Inn_ ’ or ‘ _The Black Bull_ ’. It had been a while since you’d been anywhere like this, since you tended to avoid live music venues while you were in Brightthorpe, in hopes of avoiding your awful ex-bandmate. Unfortunately, the habit seemed to have followed you in the move.

Ah, no, you remember it now - ‘ _The Famous Cock_ ’, because Roger had joked that it was his nickname in university. Brian had tutted and said something along the lines of ‘ _pack it in, Roger; your nickname was ‘Rainbow’_ ’, though your memory had gotten incredibly hazy over the past few drinks.

You’d been tucked away in a corner at the back, the table sticky with past cider spills and God-knows-what-else, and now you were practically slumped over in your seat, babbling a mile a minute.

“I’m surprised they served you, B, you’re like a baby!” Roger slurred loudly, and you sputtered, waving your drink around in offence. “Did they ID you?”

“Fuck off, I’m not that young!” They _had_ ID’ed you, but you weren’t going to admit that to him. “I’m surprised they let you in, considering you took a year to walk up the steps.”

“Do you need a booster seat, B?” Brian jokes, and you groan, barely audible over Roger’s roaring laughter. You rolled your eyes so hard that your body lurched to the side, and you bumped your head against the wall, causing you all to collapse into drunken laughter, with Brian’s fumbling hands checking over the side of your head to see if there was a lump.

“Brian, ‘m fine!” You whine, but he dismisses your protests with a firm hush, and you decide to give in to him, folding your arms with a scowl. Roger is howling with laughter in front of you, to which you stick out your tongue. The singer on-stage is wailing an awful ‘ _London Calling_ ’ cover, which makes you wince with every note butchered. Roger and Brian seemed to have noticed too, turning in their seats to stare at the train wreck of a band in disbelief.

“‘ _The Clash_ ’? More like ‘ _The Crap-sh_ ’.” You mumble to yourself, and Roger chokes on his drink with an amused snort, which you take as encouragement to make more awful jokes. “Yeah, London _is_ calling, and it’s telling you to shut up.”

Roger laughs again, his face flushed red beneath his beard. You grin back at him, simply humoured by the sight of his amusement. Brian groans. “Keep going, B!”

“We shouldn’t laugh,” Brian says, _laughing_. “We were all awful at one point.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got actual video evidence that I was, and you haven’t!” You argue, sitting back in your chair and sipping at your drink, before quickly setting it down in frustration at the sound of another bum note. “God, their bassist needs to cut their nails!”

“The drummer’s definitely pissed. I’ve gone on stage after a few drinks enough times to know what a drunk drummer looks like.” Roger grumbles, glaring at the mess of a man sat behind the kit at the back of the stage, greasy black hair falling into his glazed over eyes. He misses another beat, and you can feel Roger practically radiate frustration. “His technique is awful - who hits a hi-hat like _that?_ ”

“That’s not a good thing, Roger.”

“ _I’m just saying!_ ”

The song finishes, and you feel worse than you did before it started, the whole room starting to lurch violently from side to side. You set your drink down, deciding to put a cork in it for the night, and watch as Brian winces at the poor guitarist battering around their second-hand ‘ _Fender’_.

“Why are we here?” You ask no one in particular, trying not to slur your words. Brian turns to you, leaning on his forearms, despite the awful state of the table. He softens his voice to that lovely tone he always uses when he’s explaining something you don’t quite understand, or telling a story; like when he taught you how to play scrabble on one of the long nights between tech, or told you about the time he got hepatitis and nearly fucking died. Understandably, the latter did _not_ calm your nerves about getting your jabs before you left for tour, and Brian was on the receiving end of your panic - though you certainly appreciated him keeping an eye on you over that leg of the tour.

“Ah, the age-old question that’s bothered me since I was a young lad. You know, I’ve spent years of my life studying and reading and learning-“

“Shut up, you old numpty; they mean why we’re in a pub.” Roger interrupts, and Brian doesn’t look amused, choosing to roll his eyes lightly instead. Roger hiccups and sits forward in his chair, his flushed cheeks a stark contrast to the white of his beard. Your alcohol-addled mind jumps to images of Santa Claus, and you mentally scold yourself. “We wanted you to see what it was like back in our day.”

You blink, confused. “What?”

“Like… back in our day.”

_“What?”_

“For goodness’ sake, Roger, you’ve got all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop.” Brian murmurs, and you snicker as he traces a callused fingertip over the rim of his glass.

Roger grins. “Thank you!”

“What he means to say is that this is what it was like when we were around your age and we were just starting out.” He continues, talking over the band, which has started up again, playing ‘ _Panic_ ’ by ‘ _The Smiths_ ’. Either they know this song better - or you’re just drunk - because it doesn’t sound as awful, and you bounce your leg under the table to the beat. Roger seems to be doing the same thing, tapping out the drum parts with his fingers on the edge of the table.

_“Panic on the streets of London, panic on the streets of Birmingham…”_

“Obviously, you weren’t there for all of that, so we were hoping to sort of - show you what it was like, and create those memories with you.” He says, and you frown, a little confused.

“But why?” You pick at the crumbling leather of the seat, the music on stage skipping a beat - much like your pounding heart.

He smiles and shrugs slightly. “Well, you’re part of the family now, aren’t you?”

Brian’s words light a fire in your chest, and you immediately beam at him, your whole body filled with that beautiful, happy buzz that Brian often sparked. You don’t think he means to, but his little comments about how well you played that night, or how he was proud of you, have you feeling like you’re floating on air for days afterwards. It hadn’t gone unnoticed either, seeing as you’d been sent a video titled ‘ _Y/N Looking Lovingly at Roger and Brian for 15 Mins Straight_ ’ at least two dozen times this week. This, however, had to take the cake.

“I love you.” You immediately blurt, and your face burns red with embarrassment once you process what you’ve said. Brian and Roger simply laugh, heartily, and you shrink into your chair, withering into the fabric.

“We love you too, B.”

“No, honestly, like, I love you _lots_. You’ve made such a big impact in my life and you take care of me.” You babble, pulling on a loose thread hanging from your t-shirt. “You didn’t have to come to my house and check on me, but you knew I’d be a big mess, so you did, and-“

“B, slow down.”

“And I haven’t been out for so long! Because if I was in Brightthorpe - I’d just keep bumping into _him_ , and I was so _scared_ -“

Brian freezes at that, his face dropping.

“Wait, wait, wait.” He interrupts you, holding his hands out as if to steady you if you fall over, which you very much feel like you might, even though you’re sat down. He has a worried look in his eye, and you catch his gaze, wrinkling your nose. “Who? Who’s ‘ _him_ ’?”

“ _Julian!_ ” At the sound of your former bandmate’s name, the two of them sour visibly, grimacing with something your drunken self can’t quite identify. Uneasiness? Anger? Pity? Whatever it was, it was ripe with hate.

They’d instantly disliked Julian as soon as they saw him grab at you and order you around in a YouTube video of your old band, ‘ _Penny the Set_ ’. You, being young and trapped in your stupid, small town, had thought that you would just have to deal with Julian’s behaviour, and only realised how hurtful he was when you started touring with ‘ _Queen_ ’. Since then, you’d grown ashamed of your naivety, trying desperately to hide reflexive flinches from Brian, or how you winced when Roger raised his voice; apparently, it hadn’t gone unnoticed. Since watching the video, Brian had been looking over you with a close eye, especially after the degree to which you refused to tell them anything - it wasn’t like he was going to force you to explain why you jump at the sound of equipment bumping against walls, more like he just wanted to make it known he was there for you. They wanted to protect you, that was all, but you didn’t feel deserving of it.

You could still hear the crack of knuckles on plaster, if you closed your eyes, and listened hard enough. You loathed it; every millisecond of the memory, of pity, and of feeling absolutely _terrified_ of him.

_“Burn down the disco, hang the blessed DJ…”_

“I fucking _hate_ that prick,” Roger mutters to himself, gritting the syllables out from between his teeth. “He was a heartless bastard and nothing more, B, okay? He’s rotting away in Brightthorpe like he should be, the dirty cu-“

“What Roger means to say, is that he’s not here, and he can’t hurt you,” Brian says, nudging at Roger to put an end to whatever vile word was about to leave his mouth. He sickens slightly at the look on your face, pallid and clammy.

“He didn’t hurt me.” You say, and though there’s no argument in it, it’s not strictly false. Roger and Brian seem to see right through you, and tense with rage.

_“Hang the DJ, hang the DJ, hang the DJ…”_

“B, if he _ever_ laid a hand on you, you tell me and he’ll have me to answer to. I don’t know if I’m too old to deck him, but I will absolutely try-“

There’s a loud _pop_ over the speakers that overpowers Roger’s threats, coming from where the band have started packing up and the drummer had knocked over his mic. Your whole body reacts viscerally, and you automatically curl in on yourself for protection - Julian wasn’t a stranger to hurling microphones in your direction when something didn’t go the way he wanted it to, and you’d taken to ducking and dodging out of the way. Looking back on it, you supposed that you got nothing out of being in that band, other than developing an incredibly fast reaction time.

Roger took one last look at your awful, green-tinted face, and downed the rest of his drink before fishing around in his pocket for his phone.

“Right, let’s get you home - we’re not as young as we used to be either.” He says, squinting at the screen and then jabbing at it, trying to find his ‘contacts’ application. You swallow thickly, using the table edge to push your body to an upright position, even though the room swims around you.

“Okay, but my feet hurt, so I might be a bit slow-“

“You’re not walking!” They both gasp, horrified, and you blink at them, confused, and swaying in your seat slightly.

“What? I used to do it all the time.”

“Yeah, back in _Brightthorpe!_ ” Roger sputters, and Brian nods too, his hair in a drunken frizz around his face.

“Good grief, B, you’re only young and it’s dangerous out there - let us ring you a taxi.” He says, and you’re about to protest again before the room lurches to the side, and you let out a puff of breath.

“Okay, if you insist.”

-

You feel sick. And the world is spinning. You’re sat on the kerb, with tiny bits of rock digging into your arse through your pants and the palms of your hands, your head between your knees. Roger and Brian are off to the side somewhere, and you had one of their coats draped over your shoulders - the result of a very drawn-out argument over whether you were cold or not. You, on one hand, thought you were fine, but Brian had sat you down and wrapped you in his jacket after listening to your teeth chatter for a minute straight.

A small bottle of water was thrust at you, with Roger attached to the end of it.

“Get this down you, you’ll feel better.” He says, though his voice is far away and muffled, and you comply, finishing it quickly and passing him back the bottle. His hands rub over your arms to create heat as you drink it, and you appreciate the now-foreign feeling of warmth on your skin.

Who’s singing? Oh, shit, it’s you; drunkenly howling the lyrics to ‘ _Wuthering Heights_ ’ at the top of your lungs, and completely out of tune. If you were sober, perhaps you’d notice Brian and Roger wincing and chuckling as you screech out the high notes, but you’re in your own little world.

And now there’s a car pulling over on the side of the street, so you haul yourself to your feet and stagger over to the driver, who has the window rolled down, a cigarette hanging from his hand.

He’s old, around Brian and Roger’s age with white hair and creases around his eyes. He fiddles with the cigarette in his fingers, plucking at it in a way that reminded you of playing your bass. You miss your bass - where is it? Home! Yes, it’s time to go home.

A tune weaves itself through the fog in your head. ‘ _Happy at home…_ ’ You love that song.

“‘Scuse me, are you the cab, mate?” You slur, and he freezes when he sees you, his sort-of greyish eyes growing wider, before he clears his throat, stubbing out the cigarette and scratching at the back of his neck.

“Uh, no, sorry, I-“ He says, and suddenly, you get the feeling you know him. There’s something overwhelmingly familiar about him, like he’s an old friend that you haven’t seen in years, and from the way he’s looking at you, he’s thinking the same way. “Yeah, no, I’m not.”

“‘Kay, sorry to bother you.” You bob your head in apology, and start to step away, though you really, _really_ don’t want to. What you want to do is figure out who this guy is - _yes, sleuth him out, like Scooby Doo!_ \- and then go home and order a big, fat takeout.

He clears his throat, and you turn around.

“If you need a lift home I can give you one.” He offers, and you hold his gaze for a while, your eyebrows wrinkling uncertainly. “I’m on my way to pick my son up from a gig, but there’s time. I don’t mind.”

“It’s okay, my friends have called me a taxi.” You turn around to point at Roger and Brian, who are now not there, seemingly disappeared into thin air. You pull Brian’s coat tighter around yourself, and hope he’s not left anything important in it. A quick rummage through the pockets produces nothing more than a few bits of loose change and a pen, so he’ll probably be fine. You blink dumbly, your outstretched finger wavering. “They’re not there.”

“You sure you’re okay on your own?” The man doesn’t sound convinced, and now you’re truly processing how cold you actually are, and his car looks so warm. It smells familiar too, but you can’t quite place it - though it reminds you of being on tour.

“You’d really give me a lift?”

“Yeah, if you want. If one of my kids was out here by themselves I’d want them to get home safe, so it’s honestly no problem.”

Now, normally, you wouldn’t get into strangers’ cars. _Obviously._ But you couldn’t shake the feeling that you knew this man, that you’d maybe met before. Strangely, he made you feel at ease.

So you got in.

“You look so familiar - have we met?” You blurt after you’ve stuffed yourself into the back seat and told him your address, bundled in the metres of fabric that was Brian’s coat. The sleeves are ridiculously long; you can barely see your hands.

“No.” He answers a little too quickly, but you’re too fuzzy around the edges to notice it, so you fumble with your seatbelt instead. The car rumbles to life, and then the streetlights are whirling past like Catherine wheels.

“What’s your name then?”

The man hesitates, his mouth opening and closing as if thinking of something to say.

Eventually, he settles on “John.”

“John! I _love_ Johns!” You exclaim, and he looks at you in the rear-view mirror, his eyes crinkling in a small smile. _Who else did you know called John?_ Not knowing where you’d seen this guy before was driving you around the twist. “I’m _sure_ we’ve met, what’s your last name?”

“Oh, uh, that doesn’t matter - we’ve definitely never met.” The soft click of the indicator fills the car, and you shake your head, rooting around in your pockets for your phone.

“Maybe my friends know you, let me ask them - do you know Brian and Roger?” You’re absorbed in the hunt for your phone so you can text them, but you don’t miss the way John’s hands tighten a little on the steering wheel. God, even his hands seem familiar - and then the ‘ _Another One Bites The Dust_ ’ bassline pops into your head, unprompted. You dismiss it, trying to focus on the task at hand.

“I don’t, sorry.” He shakes his head, and you shrug, not understanding why your gut instinct is telling you that he’s lying.

“Come on, tell me your surname! We _must_ have met.”

“We haven’t. Why don’t you tell me your name, hm?” John retaliates, and you suddenly beam with pride, sitting up a little as you pronounce the single syllable of your nickname, completely forgetting about looking for your phone.

“I’m B.” You often revel in introducing yourself as ‘ _B_ ’ now, even though the origin of it was embarrassing for months, but now you wear it like a badge of honour. You might as well; seeing as practically everyone in your personal life had taken to calling you by it, even your own mother. Plus, you enjoy getting to explain the meaning behind it, and then you get to talk about how much you love your job - you could go on and on and _on_ about it.

_That one letter means a lot to you now._

However, John simply nods and smiles, and doesn’t pry any further, like he already knew. No one has ever done that before.

“What’s your surname? Wick?”

“That’s Keanu Reeves.”

“Lennon?”

“He’s dead.”

“Cena?”

“Who the Hell is that?”

You huff in mock exasperation, and then giggle to yourself, running your thumb over the seams of the coat. It smells like Brian, but you can’t quite place that either.

“That’s a nice coat.” John seems to read your mind, and he taps his fingers over the steering wheel in a steady rhythm, one that you’re absolutely sure you also know, but you just smile and nod, not wanting to bother him too much.

“It’s not mine, it’s Brian’s. But I’ll tell him!”

“You, uh, you don’t have to do that.”

“ _I do!_ I’ll have to text him when I get home!” You insist, and John doesn’t protest any more, so you take to swinging your legs a little, watching the traffic lights change colour and following raindrops as they roll down the window. There’s a beat of silence, before you decide to fill it. “What gig did you say you were picking your son up from?”

“I didn’t. It’s his band, in some underground place a few streets over from the pub.” He explains, and you’re relieved that his son wasn’t the one to blame for the awful racket you’d been listening to all night. “They’re quite good - indie stuff, if you’re into that kind of thing.”

“You have to say that, you’re his dad.” You say, and he actually laughs a little, the lines around his eyes becoming a little more pronounced. There’s a small beauty mark you can see on his cheekbone, and some alarm blares in your brain that _you know this man_. “What does he play?”

“He’s the bassist.”

Almost instinctively, _you ask him if he taught him how to play._ At seeing John’s face drop, you backpedal, pressing your face into your hands and groaning. “Sorry, I don’t know why I said that - it just came out, you probably don’t even play.”

The only sound in the world is the hum of the car’s engine beneath your feet, and his small chuckle to himself. He hums thoughtfully, watching the road.

“Not as much as I used to.”

“You _used_ to?!” You cry before you gasp, suddenly very excited. “Are you John Paul Jones!?”

“Afraid not.” He shakes his head, amused, and you gasp again, practically about to explode.

“John _Entwistle?!_ ”

He chuckles again, but you don’t see the joke. Instead, you’ve taken to pouting at him in the backseat, your arms folded and your eyebrows furrowed as you stare at him in the rear-view mirror. He catches your gaze, and stifles a laugh.

“You know a lot of bass players, don’t you?”

“I kind of have to know for my job. I’m sure there’s another one called John that I’m missing…” You can’t quite remember his name, but it’s on the tip of your tongue. You can’t remember the band he played for either, now that you think about it.

“I’m sure they appreciate how committed you are to playing for them.” John nods, his smile softening as he looks at you, all bright-eyed and energetic in his back seat. You furrow your eyebrows, and the world swims around you.

“I don’t remember telling you that I played in a band.” You don’t notice it, but John pales a little in the mirror, and tenses up in his shoulders. You simply shrug, pushing your hair out of my face. “Jesus, I really shouldn’t drink this much - but yeah, I play bass too.”

He struggles for a little while to find the words to say, almost reluctant, before he finally forces sound to come out of his mouth.

“Who do you play for?”

You go to answer, and then freeze as you realise that _the name of that has completely escaped you too._

“Ah, shite - I can’t remember.” You mumble as your face drops, horrified. John merely laughs from the driver’s seat, shaking his head disbelievingly. Your own eyes widen, fiddling with your necklace to try and jog your memory, on the verge of tears. “ _Don’t laugh_ , it’s not funny! I really can’t remember the name!”

“Happens to the best of us.” He simply explains, and you sink your head into your hands, face flushed beetroot red with embarrassment. He chuckles again as you groan, and he catches sight of the light bouncing off of a chain around your neck. “What’s that on your necklace?”

“A thimble. From the seaside. A friend gave it to me.” You answer, not completely registering that you’re not making sense. Finally, memories start to emerge, and you cling onto them, forcing them into coherence. A thimble. A ukulele. A gift bag with a carefully written note. ‘ _He’d want you to have it_ ’.

A name. _Freddie._

“Well - a friend of a friend. Sort of.” You explain, your energy all but melting away into something smaller, softer. It’s only now that John sees you for how young you really are, thrust into the world of rock and roll and expected to be someone you aren’t. You lower your gaze to your shoes, picking at the material of your pants, bowed under the pressure of your overwhelming sadness. You never met Freddie, but that didn’t mean you didn’t love him - you showed that every time you stepped onto the stage with your bass in hand.

“I miss him.”

He takes a shaking breath, though his body isn’t as tense as when you first got in the car, and he’s quiet for a while. It’s sombre, almost, the two of you sat in mourning in his car, for something that happened so long ago, and that you didn’t even witness.

“Me too.” He says. Neither of you mention a name, but somehow, you both know that you’re talking about the same person.

_It’s then, that you suddenly realise who this man is._

The car is stopped now, outside your house, and you can see Pierre sat in the window, staring straight at you. You and John sit there quietly, for a moment, waiting for the other to say something.

“I’ll walk you to your door.” He says, and you both get out of the car, where he stands by your side as you fumble to get your keys into the lock.  

The door swings open, and you step inside, though you turn around and look at him, leaning on the door jamb to keep your balance. There’s this strange connection between the two of you, now that you know who he is, and realise that he knows who you are too. You desperately want to ask him for his approval, to explain how much you look up to him, how much you owe to him, but seeing the look in his eyes when you mentioned Freddie makes your words stick like glue in your throat.

John’s seeing you in a new light now, no longer under the blazing stage lights in clips that he’d seen of you - but the natural, bare moonlight, your eyes filled with longing, and emotion. You were electric on stage, just what they needed on tour, but in real life, you had a sense of individuality about you, unique and precocious.

It was like staring at his younger self.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” The silence is shattered by a distant siren, and your own tentative voice. John clears his throat and shuffles awkwardly, scratching at his head.

“Oh, no thank you, I’ve got to go and pick my son up, so-“

“Maybe another time?”

“Maybe.”

“Some day, one day.” You nod, but you knew you’d never see him again. Perhaps that’s why you did what you did next, as he opens his mouth to say goodbye.

“Wait- I’ve got your hat, you need it back.“ You say, before you turn tail and throw yourself up your stairs and into your bedroom, leaving John bewildered on your doorstep. In your room, you find the faded old jester hat that John wore in the ‘ _I’m Going Slightly Mad_ ’ video, and that Roger had given you a few months ago, after you’d both gotten drunk in his loft surrounded by Queen memorabilia and old clothes. Since Roger had given it to you, you’d been building up the nerve to wear it on stage, but had otherwise decided not to, instead choosing to keep ahold of it and take care of it, giving it pride of place atop your wardrobe - where Pierre couldn’t get his claws into it. It had been one of your most cherished possessions, next to your own bass, but now, you thought that it was about time that it found it’s way back to its rightful owner.

John heard the softly chiming bells before he saw the hat, and his face dropped, hands clenching nervously inside his jacket pockets. You hold it out to him, the colours desaturated in the London moonlight, and he blinks at it, looking shocked.

“Here. It’s yours.” And he shakes his head when you speak, taking a step back. Your heart squeezes at the expression on his face, one that you keep seeing on Brian and Roger’s; the long-worn heartbreak of loss.

“Where did you even…?”

“It belongs to you.” You repeat yourself, and he looks up at you, flicking his eyes from yours, to the hat, and then back again.

“You know I can’t take that.”

“It’s not mine. I can’t keep it.” He sighs, frowning at the hat, though his fingers ache to reach out and touch it, just like how they ache to reach out and pick up the bass you have propped up in the corner. He wants to teach you everything he knows; every trick of the trade, every single thing that annoys Brian, every inside joke that made Roger laugh till he cries. He wants to talk to you about _Freddie_ , but he knows it will all hurt him more than he can handle, and he’s so _tired_ of being hurt.

You move the hat towards him again, swaying slightly, and the bells ring on the ends.

“Y/N-“

“Call me B.” You practically plead with him, as the sound of your name leaving his mouth was enough to make your throat close up, and you very much feel like crying, but you’re not too sure why. “ _Please._ ”

“B.” John takes a breath, and then reaches out with slightly-shaking hands to take the hat, which he cradles softly in his arms, brushing his fingertips over the fabric. He swallows thickly, pushing down the tears that have been threatening to fall ever since he saw you standing outside the pub that the four of them used to frequent as young men. You were his legacy, in a way - so he looks up at you, and tells you all that he can muster.

“Thank you.”

You nod your head appreciatively, wringing the coat between your hands, your heart pounding in your chest. “Thank you, too. For everything.”

He knows what you mean, and he reaches out a hand, which you shake, practically holding your breath. You ache to give him a hug, to tell him _thank you, thank you, thank you, over and over._

“Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight, B.” He replies, already back in his car, with the hat on the passenger seat, the bells shining under the streetlight. “You’re doing a fantastic job.”

The air leaves your lungs, and he drives away - and you realise you don’t remember telling him your real name.

Once inside your house, you find yourself in an unceremonious heap on your rug, with Pierre sat at your side, purring contentedly. Pulling out your phone, you see a barrage of messages and ‘missed call’ alerts flood the screen, amongst the usual Instagram and Twitter notifications.

**‘Missed Call from Bri (6)’**

**‘Missed Call from Rog (7)’**

**‘Bri: Y/N, where are you? We’re both very worried, let us…’**

**‘Rog: B!!!!!!! Answer!!!’**

**‘Bri: Please call back ASAP ! - Bri’**

**‘Rog: B where the fuck are you!! Answer your bloody phone!!!’**

The messages continue for a while, getting increasingly panicked and badly-typed (presumably, mostly from Roger, who was as drunk as you were) You, in your drunken state, saw messages that mentioned the police and didn’t think to ring back, instead opening your chat with Brian and typing out four simple messages.

**‘come over’**

**‘come to mine.’**

**‘im @ home.’**

**‘get over here.’**

The messages were almost immediately read, and the three little dots popped up at the bottom of the screen, along with the message _‘Bri is typing…’_

‘ **On our way !! - Bri** ’ It read, and you let your phone fall into your lap, curling into a ball at the foot of your sofa, still feeling like you were tangled up in the confusing web of emotions that John had woven with just a single, sad look.

The long wait turned out to not be that long, as Brian and Roger start practically kicking your door down, only for you to open it and stand there dumbfoundedly with your keys. They sweep you up into a tight hug.

“Jesus, Y/N, _never do that again_.” Roger scowls, and you feel slightly like a wayward child getting scolded by their parent, but your hands grasp at the fabric of his jacket, and you bury your face in his shirt. “Are you alright? Why are you shaking?”

He’s right - your whole body is shaking, and you feel violently sick, though whether it’s from the drinks or the sheer anxiety you have racing through your body from just standing in close proximity to _Actual-Real-Life-John-Deacon._ Just for a moment, you wonder if the whole thing was a dream, and you’ll wake up tomorrow morning; alone, in the middle of an episode of ‘ _The Young Ones_ ’, covered in crisp crumbs.

“Don’t know.” You lie, trembling in Brian’s coat, and the guitarist pets at your hair affectionately, before setting off to find your boiler.

“You’re freezing - I’m going to turn the heating up, okay? Don’t worry about any bills, we can cover the extra cost.” He calls from your kitchen, where you hear him rustle through your cupboards and drawers. “I’m putting the kettle on too.”

You nod, manoeuvring your arms around as Roger slips the coat from your body, draping a blanket over your shoulders and then turning to rifle through your record collection, still a little clumsy from the alcohol.

He manages to find one he’s satisfied with, and sets it on the turntable, fiddling with the needle and counting rings on the vinyl to find the song that he wants. The needle drops to the record, and it crackles a little before the music starts up, in the middle of the bass-heavy intro. _How ironic_. Roger whips around, grinning at you, bopping his head.

The Jam. ‘ _Town Called Malice_.’ Good shout, Rog.

“Dance, B, it’ll warm you up.” He says, and he’s shuffling on his feet to the beat of the song, swaying from side to side, and you can’t help smiling back at him. He reaches out his hands, and you take them, the two of you dancing clumsily to the music.

Brian enters, stepping in time, and holding a tray with three cups of tea on it and a plate, laughing as you holler the lyrics, swinging your arms around, before Roger sweeps you into a mock ballroom dance, spinning you around until you’re dizzy and careening towards the windows. 

You stumble on the edge of your rug and you start to fall, flinging your hand out in an attempt to catch yourself. Roger lunges to grab you by the elbow and stop your descent, pulling you back towards him. 

You barely miss the glass with your fist.

Music lilts its way through your mind, tuneful and melodic, and you recognise it as ‘Some Day One Day’, a younger version of Brian’s voice echoing around your head from decades ago. 

_“When I was you, and you were me, and we were very young...”_

 A memory of Brian telling you a similar story about a younger John punching his hand through a window flickers along the pain in your knuckles, and you start trembling again.

The song fades out, and the clicking of the drumsticks at the beginning of ‘ _The Gift_ ’ come rocketing in, followed by the guitar and vocals. Brian hands you the mug of tea and the plate, on which is a good-old-fashioned crisp sandwich; the British quick-fire comfort food. The gesture makes you tear up a bit, and you stuff as much of the food as you can into your mouth, chewing appreciatively, as the record slows into silence.

You can hear Brian cooing at something, mumbling little ‘ _hello, darling, hi_ ’s, and you loudly announce your presence through your mouthful, your rattled brain jumping to the conclusion that he was on the phone to Anita.

“Hellooo!” You chime loudly, only for Pierre to pop his fat, little face around the corner of the sofa to stare at you, Brian crouched in front of him and weaving his fingers through his fur. _Of course he was talking to your bloody cat._ Roger yawns, and pats around his pockets for his keys, only to remember how many drinks he’d had, and groan.

“We’ll have to phone a taxi, Bri.” He yawns again, stretching his arms over his head. “I’m knackered.”

“Sleep here, it’s too late.” You say, after another moment of silence, tipping the rest of your tea into your mouth and appreciating the warmth it gave to your limbs. You’ve never appreciated British culture more than you have at this moment - a cup of tea truly _could_ fix everything.

“Oh, we couldn’t-“

“You and Bri can use the beds upstairs ‘cause you’re old, and I can have the couch. I don’t mind.” You slur, and your bandmates snicker at your intoxicated bluntness, even though you’re already curling up on the couch, pulling the blanket up to your chin and nestling into the cushions.

“Jesus, _thanks_ , B.” Roger deadpans, but you don’t notice, as your eyes are already slipping closed, suddenly weighed down by the fatigue that had been sitting in your joints for the past few days. You’re comforted now that they’re there, seeing as they were all you could think about while you were separated, languishing away in your too-quiet house. “Guess I’m off to bed then - goodnight!”

“Y’re welcome. Goodnight.” You mumble, and Roger ruffles your hair over the back of the sofa as he manages to haul himself up your stairs and into your bedroom, where you hear him flop onto your bed, not even bothering to kick his shoes off. His familiar snoring echoes down your stairs a few moments later, and you’re unbelievably relieved to hear it again.

You and Brian sprawl out on your rug, and chat idly into the early hours of the morning, about anything and everything. You’re almost delirious with drunkenness and sleep deprivation at this point, _barely_ keeping track of the conversation but hanging on to Brian’s every word.

“Why were you so shaken up when we got here, hm?” He asks you softly, after he’s gotten you back onto the couch and tucked under the blanket so you don’t get cold. He taps your forehead to get you to lift your head and slides a cushion under it, which you sigh in to contentedly, rubbing your cheek over the soft fabric

“Met John.” You say, completely lacking filter by now, and Brian stills. Your voice may have been muffled by various layers of fuzzy materials, but he could recognise that name anywhere.

“John?” He muses, coming to the conclusion that you were half asleep, and delirious, reduced to babbling nonsense until you fall into a deeper sleep. At least, that’s what he wanted to believe.

“Your John.” You continue, and his stomach drops at the thought of his former bandmate, one of the people he loved - and still loves - most, but hardly ever sees. John hadn’t been the same since... _well, you know_ , and they all had known that nothing could fix the hole that had suddenly ripped itself into their lives - it’s just that he had dealt with it differently to the rest of them, and Brian didn’t fully understand it at the time. He never really could figure out John, not like Freddie could, at least. Brian didn’t mind how John dealt with his grief, just as long as he was getting by. You pipe up again, mumbling a little.

“Got in his car. Drove me home. Really nice. He knew my name.”

That makes him chuckle a little, and he brushes the stray hairs off of your face, pushing them out of the way. He looks for the right words, and instead finds a question he asks himself every day, though he’s sure that John himself would find it patronising.

“He’s doing okay?”

“Doing alright.” You quip, not recognising the genuine tone to Brian’s voice, and huffing out a short laugh in response to your own joke. Brian can’t help but worry about John, but he supposed that he had this permanent image in his head; of John Deacon, looking nineteen years old and gangly and lost. They’d all been protective of him since the beginning, treating him like their youngest brother, the one they’d defend with bared teeth - _till the end._

And that’s not who John was anymore. He stopped being that a long time ago. John was his own _brilliant_ person, and he didn’t need protecting from nasty roadies or sound-techs with attitudes anymore.

But that’s what he saw when he looked at you, someone who was brilliant and young and sharp-as-a-tack. Something special - the same something special that the three of them saw in John Deacon nearly fifty years ago. That’s why he supposed he was so determined to take care of you; _hopefully, he’d do a better job this time._

Even now, with you completely dead to the world, drooling onto the pillow, Brian knew that you would go on to do brilliant things, just like the four of them had done.

“That’s good. I’m glad.”

“Me too.”

He gets to his feet, brushing the fur from his trousers and watching as Pierre curls up around your head, staring up at him as if he were intruding a private moment.

“Be careful with my roommate’s bed,” you murmur under your breath, but just loud enough for Brian to hear, “Your feet might stick out the end.”

“Good to know.” Your eyes are closed, but he smiles anyway at you, rubbing his thumb over your shoulder one last time.

“Thank you, Bri-Bri. For taking care of me.” The nickname is something you will certainly regret when you wake up, and Brian chuckles. Whether you will remember saying it, is another story. “Love you.”

“Love you too, Y/N.” A small peck is pressed to your forehead, and you fall off into the embrace of sleep, not hearing the rest of Brian’s sentence, or the creaking of the stairs as he heads towards the door with a ‘B’ glued onto it. “Sweet dreams.”

It’s the best sleep you’ve had in ages.

**Author's Note:**

> please follow me on Tumblr @ rhapso-kei, where I post other fics & stuff!! you can always request stuff there, or in the comments too!!


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